Page 28 of What are the Chances

Charlotte

I TOOK DOWN THE pillow wall. I laid there last night, watching Mason sleep, like a total creeper. His long eyelashes fanned his handsome face, and his ridiculous lips were slightly parted, just the lightest sound of breathing. I watched him in the dark until my eyes hurt, until I could no longer keep them open.

His words lodged themselves into my head and slowly made their way down to my heart. It was more than what Mason said about me deserving better. It was the fact when I walked in on Kyle nearly a year ago, talking with that woman, something in his eyes told me he’d only hung up because of guilt—not because of love.

That look has been in his eyes every day since and was the reason we broke up once before. I left for three months, ready to be done. I convinced myself I was finished. I sure as hell didn’t want to be with someone out of obligation—or rather I didn’t want them to be with me because of it. Then he begged. He begged me for weeks to come back and made up stories about how stupid he was and how brief his online relationship had been. I wanted to stop listening to his excuses, but then he went on to explain how it simply just happened, and he didn’t mean it. How we were meant for each other.

Call me a fool—I don’t like giving up on people—but I was blind as a bat when people had already given up on me.

After spending the day with Mason and feeling him so close last night, I had two revelations. One, I wanted him to kiss me last night and two, I like him… more than I should.

So, I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom, my phone in hand, quietly shutting the door, and powered it on. Honestly, I’d ignored my cell since I landed and hadn’t told Kyle I had arrived in Ireland safely. He didn’t even know my wallet had been stolen. The fact I hadn’t felt like I needed to call him was another reason I was about to make this call. I checked my notifications, and sure enough, there was nothing from Kyle. Nothing from anyone. Another ugly reminder I was utterly alone in L.A. I'm not necessarily surprised. Why would I be?

I don't allow myself even a moment to think on it any longer. I realized I had already made up my mind a long time ago. After pulling up Kyle's contact information, I pressed the dial button and waited for it to connect. It rang three times before his voicemail came on. That seemed normal, it was eight hours behind in L.A, he was probably still at work. I didn’t want to do this over voicemail, so I kept it simple. “Kyle it’s Char. Call me, we need to talk.” I hung up, hoping he would call me soon—the sooner, the better.

“Here we are, the cliffs are coming up on your left.”

Mason’s voice brings me back to the present, and I turn my head to look out the window. I was excited when Mason mentioned the Cliffs of Moher, a huge tourist spot said to be truly remarkable. Mason parks and we unbuckle, grabbing our jackets and of course, Noodge. Mason carries him as we make our way away across the parking lot toward the luscious green grass.

The cliffs are beyond remarkable. Large gusts of wind hit my face, carrying the taste of the sea with it. My hair flies back, and a chill runs down my arms, but I welcome it. Despite the unsavory weather, plenty of tourists are out and about in rain coats, carrying umbrellas. We seem to be the only ones lacking the appropriate weather gear. The sound of waves crashing below echoes all around us. Mason walks farther toward the edge of the cliff, and my heart speeds up. White-tipped waves peek above the vast blue ocean below us. My heart swells, and a smile forms across my face.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mason asks, standing next to me, a huge grin spread across his face.

Beautiful? How could I put into words this place somehow existed somewhere inside of me? There was something in the wind and how it blew through my hair, how the smells felt like a memory. My heart synced in perfect tune with this place and calling it beautiful wouldn’t even come close. I’ve fallen in love with Ireland and fear I could be completely at peace here. Instead of saying any of that crazy drabble, I let out an excited sigh.

“It’s beyond beautiful. I can’t believe you left this place.” I rush forward to get a closer look at the waves and the enormity of the cliffs. Mason walks lightly behind me, but I can still see the grin on his face.

The water becomes clearer, and the air is thick with ocean spray. I love it. It’s more than anything I’ve ever felt in California, distinctly different. As if someone just told me I’d been breathing artificial air all this time, then told me to inhale and experience my first real breath of fresh air.

“I was thinking we could go down toward one of the smaller cliffs. It’s a little more isolated and private,” Mason says from beside me. His head is dipped, watching our feet. I’m quickly reminded we’re here to spread his cat’s ashes—his friend, his lifelong pet. I have the urge to wrap my arm in his while we walk, to comfort him in some way. I know this has to be difficult for him. I watch the paved path beneath us and weigh how weird it might be to do just that. A second later, I give up the debate and slide my hand around Mason’s bicep, clinging to him as we walk.

He looks surprised as his eyes land where my hand rests. I look away, so he doesn’t see in my eyes I want to touch him more than I already am. Instead, I watch the ocean and the Cliffs. I watch as birds roam the grass and tourists plop down with lunch at a few of the picnic tables. The light drizzle must not be too much of a deterrent for them today. Finally, we arrive at a lower ledge with longer strands of grass growing intermittently with little white flowers.

I release Mason and take a step back to give him some room. He looks down and clears his throat. Noodge’s urn sits in his arms, looking heavy.

“I’m not sure what to do now,” Mason whispers, looking up to search my face. My heart flips at the admission, and I step forward, placing my hands over his.

“You speak from your heart and say goodbye,” I try to encourage him.

He frowns, looking down at our hands. His emotions are written all over his face—he’s battling this.

“Okay,” he exhales and steps closer to the edge of the cliff. I stand a foot or two back. If anyone was going to fall off these cliffs, it would be me.

“Noodge, buddy,” he starts. "I miss ya. You were the friend who never left me. The one constant thing in my life and the friend I told all my secrets to. You were there when Sam and I got into those awful fights. You were there when I left home and traveled across the ocean to America. I knew you couldn’t live forever, but I sorta wish you would have. You’ll be missed.”

Tears brim in my eyes and sorrow clogs my throat. This is sad, so utterly sad. I feel horrible for ever making fun of Noodge’s name. I want to tell Mason and somehow say something about his beloved pet, but I didn’t know Noodge, and it would seem out of place, so I stay quiet. Mason carefully lifts the lid of the urn and places it on the grass. I hold my breath as he looks out over the edge and takes a step forward to spread the ashes. He keeps his eyes on the sea, and a second later, he trips. Half the ashes fall out of the urn on to the ground.

“Damnit!” he yells, falling to his knees, quickly trying to push the ashes back into the urn.

For some damn reason, I feel laughter tickle my throat and bite down hard on my cheek to keep it at bay. Now is not the time!

I drop to try and help Mason, but he waves me off.

“It’s alright,” he mutters. "Maybe this is better. Maybe part of him should stay here on land since this is where I found him.” He sends me a smile and I melt. We both stand, and he turns to face the ledge again.

“Goodbye, friend.” He tips the urn to the side and tosses the rest of the ashes out to the sea, right as a heavy gust of wind slams into us, throwing the ashes back, directly into my face.

Noodge’s remains blow straight into my eyes, land in my open mouth and in my hair. Stunned, I freeze for a second, not sure exactly what just happened. Because my mind refuses to accept what just happened, it’s piecing together the only probable reason why my tongue feels like I just licked an ashtray. Reality catches up with the bitter taste on my tongue, and I start coughing violently, spitting into the grass, fervently wiping at my face and hair.

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